The group passed through one of the smaller kitchens and out into a wide herb garden. From here, Yrianath’s escorts turned right and led him through an arch in a hedge. Yrianath found himself in a circular garden, bordered by the hedgerow and night-flowering hisathiun.
“Wait here a moment, prince,” the servant instructed him. Yrianath was not used to taking orders from his subjects, but he was confused and so stood where he had been left as the two attendants vanished into the darkness.
He waited there for a moment, turning his eyes up to the towers of the palace where flames flickered from the windows and a blot of smoke swathed the stars.
“Do you have any regrets?” a voice asked him from the darkness. Whirling around, Yrianath searched the night garden but saw nothing.
“Who’s there?”
“Your conscience, perhaps,” the voice replied. “How does it feel to have the deaths of so many on your hands? What do you think history will say of Prince Yrianath?”
“I was tricked! Trapped by Palthrain and Caenthras!”
“And so you did the honourable thing and took your own life… No, wait, that isn’t what happened, is it?”
“Where are you?” Yrianath demanded, continuing to turn on the spot, seeking his interrogator. “Show yourself.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“Yes, yes I do!” Yrianath shrieked. “Every night I am haunted by what I have done. I know I was foolish, shortsighted. I meant no harm!”
“And what act of contrition would you perform to make amends?”
“Anything, oh gods, I would do anything to put this right!”
Something shimmered in the darkness and a sheathed dagger fell at Yrianath’s feet.
“What should I do with that?” he asked, staring at the knife as if it were a poisonous serpent.
“You know what to do. I suggest slitting your throat would be quickest.”
“What happens if I refuse?” Yrianath flicked the dagger away with the toes of his bare foot.
“This happens,” said the voice, directly behind Yrianath. There was a flutter of cloth and a black-gloved hand closed over his mouth, stifling his scream. Yrianath felt a hot pain in his back and then everything went numb. Blackness swallowed him and he fell.
Alith removed the prince’s head and placed it in the sack with Caenthras’. He would have spared Yrianath the indignity if he had been brave enough to take his own life. Instead, he would also be used as an example. A glance confirmed the fire raged in the palace, its ruddy light creeping across the gardens.
Keeping to the shadows, Alith headed for the boundary wall.
Clouds swathed the mountains to the east, turning to a blood-red as the sun rose. A pall of smoke hung over Tor Anroc, the scorched towers of the palace rising as blackened spires over the city. Here and there embers glowed, flickering through glassless windows.
There had been panic on the streets, but the druchii commanders had stamped down ruthlessly on the citizens of Tor Anroc, accusing any that were found outside of being arsonists, slaying them on the spot. Fear shrouded the Tiranocii capital as much as the swathe of smoke.
“I’m glad I wasn’t at the palace last night,” said Thindrin, slouching against the battlement of Tor Anroc’s eastern gatehouse. The druchii’s spear and shield were leant against the stonework next to him.
“For sure,” replied his companion, Illureth. “I think that those that died in the fire were the lucky ones. The Khainite witches will have plenty of bodies for their pyres tonight when Caenthras is finished.”
“Or perhaps he’ll send them into Eagle Pass, for the rebels to torture,” said Thindrin. His vicious grin turned to a frown. “I’m not certain which is worse: witches or rebels.”
“For sure,” Illureth said again, suppressing a yawn. The sentry glanced absently over the rampart. Something caught his attention. “What is that?”
Thindrin looked down to the roadway leading up to the gate and saw an indistinct shape, tall and thin in the dawn gloom. For a moment he took it to be a person, but then dismissed the notion. There was another shape, of the same size and height, on the other side of the road.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Stay here, I’ll take a look.”
Thindrin snatched up his spear and shield and jogged casually down the steps inside the gate tower. He signalled to Coulthir at the gate to open the small access door. Ducking through, Thindrin walked a few paces along the road. Two spears had been driven into the turf either side of the paved slabs, and something round hung from each. As the light brightened and Thindrin walked closer, he saw what it was. His spear dropped from his grasp and clattered on the flagstones.
Thindrin gathered his wits for a moment and turned back to the gatehouse.
“You better send for the captain!” he called out.
Upon the spears were the heads of Princes Yrianath and Caenthras; the rune of shadow carved into the forehead of the first, the rune of vengeance cut into the cheek of the second.
—
Blades of Anlec
As the legions of Anlec had brought misery and dread to Ulthuan, so Alith’s shadow warriors visited terror and woe upon the druchii. They ranged across Tiranoc and Nagarythe, sometimes even daring Anlec itself to kill members of the courts and mutilate their bodies with symbols of dread: shadow and vengeance. Rarely did they gather in any numbers, so that the Naggarothi armies could not know whether to march south or north, to patrol the mountains or sweep the marshes and plains.
Alith would sometimes call a halt to the attacks, for dozens of days at a time. The first time he did this, the druchii believed that perhaps the mysterious Shadow King had been caught or slain. They were wrong, and in one night Alith unleashed coordinated attacks across the druchii-held territories, assassinating commanders, burning camps and stealing supplies. The next time there was a lull, the druchii were more fearful than when they were being attacked. The dreaded anticipation of what the Shadow King would inflict upon them next occupied their waking thoughts and tormented their dreams.
They were not disappointed. On midsummer’s day, an army marching east towards the Eagle Pass vanished. It set out from Tor Anroc and never made it to the garrison at Koril Atir. No bodies were found and there was no sign of ambush; five thousand warriors were simply never seen again.
The wailing of the elf maiden diminished quickly to a whimper and then fell silent as her blood spilled from her throat and spread into a pool upon the marble floor. Morathi contemplated her crimson reflection for a while, pleased with what she saw. Six years of constant war might have taken their toll on her underlings but she remained as fresh and beautiful as she had been on that momentous day so many centuries before.
She smiled at the recollection of her own naiveté of youth even as she recalled the thrill of power she had felt during that first sorcerous bargain. She had not known then quite how far that fateful encounter with the daemons would take her, but she regretted not a single step along the path. It was true that the swift victory she had once envisaged was now beyond her grasp, but nevertheless the war progressed well.
She dismissed the distracting thoughts with a shake of her head, her long curls of hair sending a thrill through her body as they tickled her shoulders. She fought back the urge to indulge in the sensation and lifted the bloodstained knife in her hand. Delicately, she pricked the tip of her thumb and allowed a single droplet of her own blood to fall into the pool made by the sacrifice. Where it touched the offering her blood spread in a slow ripple, forming shadows of deeper red. The shadows became more defined, showing a scene of the mountains. Clouds scudded across the red sky and hung about crimson peaks. With a word she focussed the vision, zooming in to Eagle Pass. Her magical eye swept over a column of warriors and knights as they marched eastwards to confront the army of upstart Imrik. They would not be victorious but they would distract the usurper king long enough for other parts of her plan to be set in motion.
A discreet
cough pulled her attention towards one of the archways leading into the chamber. A functionary dressed in silken robes bowed low and the sorceress beckoned him in with a beringed finger.
“Your guest awaits your pleasure, majesty,” said the servant.
“Bring him up immediately,” Morathi replied. She turned back to the scrying pool, instantly forgetting the servant’s presence.
“Who is it?” someone asked from one of the adjoining rooms. His voice was hoarse, a whisper wracked with pain. “Is it… Hotek?”
“No, it is not,” Morathi replied. “He labours still, but his work will be complete soon enough. No, our guest is someone else, who brings very good news indeed.”
The scrape of a metal-shod foot on stone announced the arrival of Morathi’s guest. He stood in the archway clad in armour that had been tested much, scratched and dented in many places. His black hair was swept back with a silver band and the right side of his face was livid with a long scar, his eye on that side a blank white orb.
“Prince Alandrian, how good of you to come,” Morathi said huskily.
“Milady,” replied Alandrian with a bow. “It is my honour to finally come here and see you in person after all these years.”
“Yes it is,” said Morathi. “But it is one that you deserve. What news of my reinforcements?”
“I have left a strong garrison at Athel Toralien and the siege is ongoing, majesty,” said Alandrian, unconsciously lifting a hand to his ruined face. “The other colonies have been emptied of troops who now sail for Ulthuan. Five hundred thousand of your bravest and noblest warriors will be on these shores before winter.”
The prince’s smile was mirrored by Morathi.
“That is good,” she said. “While you await your troops, there is a small matter I want you to deal with.”
“I understand you wish to be rid of the so-called Shadow King,” replied Alandrian. “With your support, I will have his head on a lance by the time the fleet arrives.”
“You will have all the support you need,” said Morathi. She looked through the archway from which the other voice had come, her expression suddenly pained. “It vexes us that all is not well in Nagarythe. I expect you to restore stability as you did in Athel Toralien.”
“It will be done,” Alandrian replied with another bow. “I will bring you the head of the Shadow King myself.”
“I trust that you will,” said Morathi.
“Yeasir was a traitor,” the husky voice said from the adjoining chamber, its wavering tone hinting at delirium. “You would not betray us, Alandrian?”
“Yeasir was once strong, but when asked for true sacrifice he weakened,” said Morathi. “Alandrian has already proven his loyalty in that matter, haven’t you, Alandrian?”
“Khaine called to my daughters and they answered willingly,” said Alandrian. “That their mother did not agree was unfortunate for her, majesty. I regret her lack of wisdom but I cannot regret her death.”
“I am told that your daughters’ studies go well and that they have progressed far in the arts of Khaine,” said the sorceress-queen. “I can barely recall their demure attendance to me in Athel Toralien those many years ago. Tell me, are they as devoted to their father now as they were when last we met?”
“Not as devoted as they are to the Lord of Murder,” said Alandrian, his scarred face creasing into a wry smile. “I am very proud of them and I do not doubt that one day they will make all of Nagarythe similarly proud.”
Morathi took a few steps towards Alandrian and laid a gentle hand upon his ravaged cheek.
“I could fix that for you, my dear,” she said. “You could be as handsome as you were when we first met.”
“Thank you, majesty, but I must decline,” said Alandrian. “My scars remind me of the price of overconfidence. A mistake I will not repeat.”
“You always… had the most sense… of us all,” the whisper announced between hissing intakes of breath.
Alandrian said nothing for a moment, but dared a glance towards Morathi. The sorceress was distracted, still with a hand on his cheek, staring into the adjacent room. He turned slightly to follow her gaze but Morathi stepped in front of the prince, obscuring his view. She drew her hand back slowly and shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said quietly. A golden tear formed in her eye. “Soon enough you can see him.”
The cries of gulls and crash of waves masked what little noise was made by the shadow army. The tang of salt on the air reminded Alith a little of Tor Elyr, a taste unfamiliar to one who had lived most of his life far from the sea. The Shadow King felt ill-at-ease. The headlands of Cerin Hiuath, less than a day’s march south of Galthyr, were relatively exposed in comparison to the shadow warriors’ usual hunting grounds. The moorlands to the east provided cover for the two hundred warriors to approach the coastal road, but the tops of the cliffs were all but devoid of features to offer concealment.
Despite his misgivings, Alith had brought a force here to strike at a worthy prize. Word had come to the Shadow King that several of Morathi’s court, leaders of the various cults that vied for power within Nagarythe, were to take ship at Galthyr and sail north to join the druchii armies in Chrace. Knowing that the route direct from Anlec would be closely watched, the cult magisters were to take a more indirect route, travelling south-west before heading up the coast to the port. The possibility of killing or capturing these influential cultists was too tempting to pass up, and so Alith had hurriedly put out the command to several of the shadow warrior cadres to join him in the west.
For two days since they had gathered the shadow warriors watched the coast road for signs of the entourage. Alith expected them to be travelling with little protection: any large force moving out of Anlec would have attracted unwanted attention. If his two hundred warriors were not enough for the task, they would simply withdraw without being seen. Although the shadow warriors’ daring had become part of the myth surrounding the Shadow King, the truth was that Alith thought himself a cautious commander, risking his warriors only when the odds were in his favour or, as now, the gains of victory warranted additional gambit. In this way the shadow warriors had suffered only a few dozen casualties since they had begun their campaign.
If the cultists were as careful as Alith thought they would be, they would travel fast and light, hoping to avoid detection. The fact that the course of the war in Avelorn and Cothique had lured these primates out of Anlec was in itself a victory of sorts, upon which Alith intended to capitalise as much as possible. The disappearance of the cult leaders would send their followers into disarray for some time, the power struggles and internal conflict ravaging Anlec and leaving the druchii vulnerable to further attacks. It was pleasing to Alith to turn the cults’ weapons of disorder and fear against them, inflicting upon them the woes they had engineered for the princes of Ulthuan for several centuries. As they lived, so would they die.
Shortly after midday, one of the shadow warrior scouts came running hard from the south. He breathlessly reported his news to Alith and Khillrallion.
“Riders, lord, coming fast along the road,” the scout told them. “I would say no more than thirty of them.”
“Are they the counsellors?” asked Khillrallion. “Are they the ones we hunt?”
“I believe so,” said the shadow warrior. “There are some twenty knights, the others are armed but dressed in fineries. One of them has long white hair braided with black roses, which matches what we know of Diriuth Hilandrerin, the magister of the cult of Atharti. He is responsible for the massacres at Enen Aisuin and Laureamaris. Another rides under a red banner marked with the dagger of Khaine, which was borne by the warriors of Khorlandir during the first siege of Lothern. I do not recognise the others but they wear many of the profane symbols of the cults.”
“They are our prey,” said Alith. He half-turned his head for a moment as he heard the faintest of whispers from the moonbow in the quiver upon his back. “I can feel it in my bones. Their darkness comes
before them like a wave.”
“Make ready for the ambush,” Khillrallion told the shadow warrior. “Send a hawk to us when our quarry have passed your position. We will come at them from north, east and south and trap them.”
Alith nodded his assent; this was the plan he had outlined to the shadow-walkers a few days earlier.
“I want prisoners if possible,” the Shadow King reminded his companions. “These creatures may be able to tell us much of what passes in Anlec, and of forces loyal to them in the other kingdoms. For the violence and suffering they have unleashed upon us, their deaths should be neither swift nor painless.”
The messenger set off at a run as Khillrallion departed to bring news of the imminent attack to the other shadow-walkers. Alith stayed where he was, in the shadow of an outcrop of rock directly overlooking the road. The coastal path was broad and paved with white stone, winding its way along the edge of the land less than a bow’s shot from the crashing seas. He had picked a stretch of the road where the coast heaped into rough hills and dropped away sharply to jagged rocks at the water’s edge. The ambushers had not only the advantage of surprise but also position. The shadow warriors had the ambush site well scouted, and despite the scarcity of cover most of them could be concealed within a few hundred paces of the road and would strike before being seen. The rest were to remain out of sight further east, to move in as a reserve should resistance be stronger than anticipated.
Alith drew forth the moonbow and gave it a loving stroke.
“More blood for you today,” he whispered as he fitted an arrow to the string.
Alith heard the riders before he could see them. Hooves pounded on the cobbles of the road as the druchii made a dash for the comparative safety of Galthyr. He waited, fighting back tension and excitement, and cast a glance behind him to ensure that none of his warriors could be seen. In this regard the Shadow King was very pleased. Even though he knew where each shadow warrior lay in wait, not a single one caught his eye.
[Sundering 02] - Shadow King Page 39